


Warm, Strong Hands

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Established Relationship, M/M, Pets, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 07:29:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4092367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was loved. He loved in return, and there was no sweeter pleasure than to sleep curled up by his side when Valjean took a nap, those strong, calloused hands always so ready with a caress as soon as he moved. He could be happy here forever, he thought – if only there wasn't the matter of the rival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warm, Strong Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [icicaille](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icicaille/gifts).



He remembered the hands that had pulled him from the water. Warm, strong hands. Hands that seemed to only ever mean comfort and not cruelty. Hands that offered food and shelter, and that allowed him weeks of solitude in his bedroom at first, and that stayed patient even when he shied away from every touch.

How strange that such a thing was possible. One born in the gutter had no reason to hope for a life like this, where companionship and warmth was freely given, where he knew himself loved – where his presence brought forth a smile and his name was spoken as a caress.

How very strange this was. Stranger still that he had once thought of it as a trap, for now he knew that it was heaven indeed to share this man's apartment, and nothing would ever make him leave.

He was loved. He loved in return, and there was no sweeter pleasure than to sleep curled up by his side when Valjean took a nap, those strong, calloused hands always so ready with a caress as soon as he moved. He could be happy here forever, he thought – if only there wasn't the matter of the rival.

His tail twitched with displeasure at the sound that came from door, as though just by his thoughts he had summoned him. There he was, the rival, coming in hat in hand, scowling as soon as he caught sight of him. 

Tibert sat up and stretched demonstratively, his tail vibrating with disdain as he stared the tall man down. The man stared back, never flinching, and Tibert, who indulged in these contests with him nearly every day, refused to look away first, his tail lashing the table with growing excitement until at last he could not bear it anymore and jumped to the ground, his whiskers quivering, scandalized anew at how the rival kept taunting and challenging his dominance.

Slowly, he made his way over to the bedroom door that still stood slightly ajar, tail held high like a proud flag - his declaration of war, and a challenge even his rival could not allow to pass.

Hastily, the man came after him, but it was too late, for he was ugly and ungainly and could only lumber after him on two feet, whereas Tibert wove easily around the door and then quickly made his way past the bed to jump and land with perfect precision in the welcoming lap of his savior.

He purred demonstratively even as he curled up. The book was lifted out of the way so that he could make himself comfortable, as was proper, curling his tail around his nose to watch from behind it as the rival stopped in the middle of the room, glaring down at him until those gentle hands began to pet him and Tibert purred even louder in response.

"I'll join you in a moment, Javert."

Tibert yawned and tilted his head to allow his savior to scratch him just there behind his ear as his rival scowled and left. He'd make sure the moment would last at least half an hour, just to show him that he could.

#

The sun shone brightly when he woke. He twitched with displeasure, then turned a little, moving into Valjean. He was still asleep, his breathing deep and regular, and for a while, he managed to fall asleep again as well, dreaming of the hunt. But those days were long past, he thought with satisfaction when he woke next and found Valjean's hand petting him gently. No more of that. No more the hunt, no more the gutter. Instead he had this: the gentle hands of the man who had saved him from the river.

Pleasure vibrated through him at the slow, tender caresses. He tilted his head; felt the fingers stroke along his throat, rubbed his whiskers along them.

Valjean laughed a little, and the sound filled him with happiness. This was his home now. This would be his home until his death, if he had a choice in it. What good were the pleasures of the hunt when he could have this instead: Valjean's gentle hands and gentle voice, a warm bed, and this man who smiled when he looked at him?

“Sometimes you remind me of him,” Valjean said, and he managed a questioning sound in return.

“Tibert. Only he would purr if I did this.” Valjean lightly scratched across Javert's back. Javert shivered and stretched with pleasure before he realized what Valjean had said, and then he scowled. Trust Valjean to spoil the mood by bringing up his rival when they were curled up in bed together.

He turned to his side, facing Valjean, and took his hand to pull it away from his neck. Instead, he pressed a kiss to it, then tugged it down under the blanket to settle it beneath his nightshirt. Valjean laughed softly, although he had flushed a little, and Javert moved to kiss him while his stomach tightened with anticipation at the way Valjean's hand rubbed his thigh. Soon he would rub _there_ , where he was already stiffening with the excitement that burst up beneath his skin. He could not wait, he thought, and shivered gratefully when Valjean's hand moved upwards a little. 

Javert ached, thick and hard between his legs while Valjean smiled against his mouth. How long now until Valjean would dare to press his warm palm to him? He wondered if Valjean was just as stiff beneath his own nightshirt. He wondered if he could dare to push off the blanket and pull up Valjean's nightshirt and look at it. Look at Valjean wanting him.

Valjean's hand was high up on his thigh now, and he breathed hot air against Valjean's mouth, watching his eyes. His body tensed with anticipation for what was to come, that first touch which was nearly unbearable every time in how different it was to the guilty touches of his own hand, which were all he had known before. Javert had tried to watch it one time, to find out whether there was something Valjean did that made it so unbearable, so good that his own hand could never compare, but he had not been able to. _Seeing_ was too much when feeling alone already overwhelmed him.

He wondered if Valjean would be able to watch if Javert pulled his nightshirt up and touched him like that, brazenly in the sunlight. He wondered--

The tip of Valjean's thumb grazed his swollen shaft, and he tensed and breathed a terse sound against Valjean's lips. Valjean watched him attentively. Any moment now his hand would slide up higher...

Valjean's hand fell away, and he made an amused sound as something fell onto the mattress.

“Tibert,” Valjean said, and Javert wanted to snarl with quiet rage. “What are you doing? Was the door not closed?”

Trust the devilish beast to find a way to interrupt at the worst time! Javert glared at it, and the creature brazenly stared back, then had the temerity to purr loudly when Valjean took hold of it and began to pet it.

“What are you doing?” Javert's fingers clenched around the blanket in irritation. It was only a cat, he reminded himself – but the beast seemed strangely provocative, and Javert could not help but feel embarrassed for how beneath the blanket, his flesh still ached despite this intruder into their bedroom.

“Look at him,” Valjean said and laughed softly, then pressed a kiss to the beast's head. Javert scowled as it stared at him, vibrating from the strength of its purring.

“How did you come in, Tibert? Did I not close the door?” Valjean smiled at Javert. “Don't look at him like that. You cannot arrest him; it is his home as well.”

“Well!” Javert said, and kept glowering. “Well, I cannot, in that case, and yet it seems to me it should do its work and earn its keep, and keep the pantry free of mice instead. A bed is no place for a beast.”

Valjean stood with the cat in his arms, which now rubbed its head eagerly against his chest. Javert was still glaring – until he saw the evidence of Valjean's own need disturb the fall of his nightshirt, and he had to swallow and avert his eyes. “Just put the beast out, Valjean. And then come to bed. It's too cold to walk around like that.”

Valjean was flushed as well, self-consciously turning away a little as he realized what was so openly displayed to Javert's eyes. 

“Come, Tibert. You can sleep in the kitchen, the oven is still warm...”

Javert made a disgusted noise at the thought of a burglar being coddled so, but then the cat jumped from Valjean's arms and made its way down to the desk near the window, meowing – in challenge, Javert thought darkly, for clearly it had to be the beast's plan to disturb all Javert had hoped for to happen this night.

“For God's sake, Valjean,” he said curtly. “Let me shoo it out; it can spend the night outside and see how it likes that--”

“Hush, Javert. You'll frighten him.” 

As he watched, Valjean made his way slowly towards the desk. The cat took one step back, then another – clearly that had to be deliberate, Javert thought, his mood worsening as he watched Valjean follow. What a farce this was. To think that a moment ago, Valjean's hand had been between his legs and he had felt his heartbeat in his throat...

“Tibert. Tibert, come here.” Valjean leaned down, holding out a hand to tempt the cat from its hiding place.

_Oh!_ Javert swallowed. 

There, before him, in the sunlight that fell in through the window, Valjean had bent forward and presented Javert with the sight of firm, round buttocks pressed temptingly against the white linen of the nightshirt. It had ridden up most indecently, displaying to Javert's eyes the scandalous sight of thick, bare thighs covered with fine hair, and above....

Javert had to swallow again, staring transfixed at the sight of those buttocks straining against the thin fabric. How indecent this was, how... He clenched his jaw, his mouth suddenly dry. How had he never noticed that Valjean's favorite shirt was thin from wear, that with the right angle of sunlight, an observer would be able to make out shapes hidden beneath, the tantalizing, sinful forms of muscle and skin that he had come to know by touch – but never by sight?

“Tibert,” Valjean called again, and Javert found himself standing all of a sudden, his need pulsing heavy and irresistible between his legs as he moved to stand behind Valjean.

“I'll be with you in a moment,” Valjean said with embarrassment in his voice, still bent over as he held out his hand beneath the desk to attract the recalcitrant beast. Javert swallowed again, staring down at the sweet, tempting shape of him almost revealed by his shirt. 

It seemed that almost of their own accord, his hands moved forward; he had to bite back a gasp as he felt them settle on Valjean's hips. Valjean tensed. Javert could feel the heat of his skin through the thin fabric. 

“Just... just one more moment, Javert.” 

Valjean's voice was low and a little uncertain, and Javert could not look away from the sight of Valjean's buttocks straining against the fabric. His own prick was pushing against his shirt. Javert clenched his teeth at the coarse display of his own need, but still could not make himself stop. 

Slowly, he drew his hands upwards, lifting the shirt inch by inch until it showed the crease where Valjean's legs met his buttocks. He thought of Valjean's own arousal revealed to the air and could not breathe from the terrible desire within him that threatened to shatter his chest.

For one long moment, they remained like that. Javert was breathing heavily. He knew Valjean could hear it. Valjean's own breathing seemed too loud, and Javert could feel how he had tensed, frozen in place, the beast forgotten beneath the desk.

He could draw his shirt up, Javert thought, his face so hot that for a moment he wondered whether this was just a fever dream. He could lift it a little more, and then Valjean would have to turn, and they would have to look at it, look at each other...

He tightened his fingers around the fabric, lust and shame warring within him as he stared again at that barest hint of where the swell of Valjean's buttocks began, the crease that his fingers had traveled and mapped in the dark. Then the beast made a sound beneath the desk and ran past them, escaping through the door that still stood ajar, and shock made Javert step back and release the shirt.

It took a moment until Valjean turned to face him. His cheeks were flushed as well and he could not meet Javert's eyes. “I'm sorry, Javert. I know you are not fond of him; I will make certain the door is closed in the future--”

“No,” Javert said and swallowed, staring again at where the proof of Valjean's own need pushed against the fabric of his shirt. He could barely stand looking at it; it was enough to make his heart pound and his hands tremble. And yet, he thought, remembering how still Valjean had been, how careful he had been not to move when Javert had lifted the shirt higher... maybe it could be faced. Maybe he could do that again. Another night. Push back the covers, and then put his hands on Valjean's thigh, and draw his hands upwards. Touching. Revealing.

He exhaled shakily, and then made himself turn and walk back towards the bed.

“No. I do not need to be fond of him. He is a cat. He needs to do his duty. But as for me... No. He and I, we have come to an understanding.”

He looked at the door again, and scowled as the beast stared back at him from around the door-frame even as Valjean gently closed the door. “As long as he stays out of the bedroom, that is.”


End file.
